My parents would often drop me off to stay with my grandmother for the winter holidays. The long, bitter winter in the city meant that these vacations would often stretch for weeks, and sometimes, even for months. My parents couldn’t afford to watch over a young child every minute of the day and my grandmother loved having me over, so I would be shipped off at the start of every winter to the quiet village home. I liked the arrangement. My grandma had hundreds of stories to tell, and I didn’t have any friends in the city anyway. And I really loved my grandmother.
And so every November, I would find myself in the distant town of Tsangri, far away from modern civilization. The small, isolated town, named after the nearby river surrounding it, was home to a few hundred people and thrived on the excellent fishing business from the nearby Tsangpo river. The hills riddled with numerous caves would regularly draw in curious tourists and explorers to the town and the locals would welcome them with considerable enthusiasm. On the other hand, I was regarded almost as a herald of bad news, and while I was generally loved, my arrival would be greeted with gritted teeth and collective sighs; for I brought with me the long nights and the fierce winter that would shut off the town for months. By November, all the tourists would be long gone, the hulking mountains would loom over the town and discourage all outside contact, and the fish in the river would be hard to come by.
Grandma lived in this small cottage on the hill, closer to the woods than to the town. She lived all by herself and was quite old, but would not even consider hiring a housekeeper; she was “strong and healthy, and needed no help in taking care of the house she had lived her whole life in”. I was, of course, an exception to her philosophy and my unwilling service was forcefully enlisted every morning. On Mondays, one of the village women would drop in with a generous supply of fresh market produce, and a larger supply of the market gossip, both of which were delivered free of charge. She was our sole connection to the town, and indeed, to the world beyond the town, and apart from the occasional villager stopping over for a chat, we lived in a world entirely of our own. Oh, of course, we had a telephone, but it was only ever used to call my parents or the local convenience store for the odd grocery delivery.
And so in our little cocoon of a world, my grandma would keep my days busy with her endless chores and would reward me in the evening with her cooking and her stories. Her cooking was legendary; she loved to cook, and would make for me dishes I had never even tasted in the city. I would wonder aloud how someone who had spent all her life in this obscure village knew so much about food, and she would simply smile mysteriously.
But even as wondrous was her cooking, it was the nightly stories I looked forward to the most every day. The days in the house were quiet and peaceful, but the nights were positively eerie. Muffled by thick blankets of snow and punctuated by the soft whisper of the mountain breeze, the silence reigned supreme over the valley and even the noisiest cricket would find itself cruelly silenced. I was not allowed to step foot outside for even a moment, and even if I could have, the desperate silence that blanketed the evening ensured I obeyed her orders.
And so even as the cold frost beat down at the doors and the small town of Tsangri slumbered behind closed doors, every night I would wait eagerly for a new story. Perhaps it was my imagination but it seemed to me as if grandma had an endless collection of stories, and every night I would be introduced to new worlds and secrets.
As a child, it was often easy to forget in the bright sunshine of the morning the dark forests and stormy seas, and that was a scandalous insult to my grandmother’s creations, she said. So we devised a plan to ensure every story would stay with me forever. Every night, we would sit together after the story, and paint a portrait of that new world. My grandmother would provide the words and I would hold the brush, and we would create vivid, bright fields or busy, lonesome cities every night; like most things, I learned to paint under her tutelage. After every vacation, I would return home with an armload of new paintings from all the stories she would tell me, every single frame alive with her words, and alive with the memories of warm, winter nights.
I looked forward to going back to grandma’s house again this year.
The holidays came and school ended. Soon I found myself back again in that familiar valley, the familiar people, and in those beautiful hills again. The first few days at my grandmother’s place sped by, as days like those usually seem to do. I would spend the day helping her in the house and there would be a new story every night. Some days, I would go out to the woods nearby and create stories of my own. Soon, winter arrived and the nights grew longer.
Like every other night, tonight as well, I waited for my story. Outside the wind howled like a wounded animal, alive and screaming in pain. But all our windows were barred shut and all the doors locked tight, and we were safe in our warm, snug cocoon.
“Grandma, “I said.
“Brat.” My grandmother always called me a brat.
“Tell me a real story tonight.”
“A real story?”
“Yes! A real story! I mean, the stories you tell me are all so…impossible, right? They aren’t real, are they?”
She laughed at my excitement.
“All stories are real, child. They happened to people someplace, sometime. Maybe a long, long time ago, maybe somewhere far, far away, but they are all very real indeed.”
“Okay, okay, but not that tonight! Tonight tell me a story from a real person you know. Tell me a story from your life! You are old, aren’t you? You probably have so many stories of your own, too!”
“Your grandmother has lived a very quiet life, brat. She lived and grew up in these mountains, and has known only these mountains her whole life. I managed to send my son out to follow his dreams, but my dreams have always grown old in these tall shadows.”
“Well, think harder. I know you must have stories from your own life too!”
I was indignant. Grandma shouldn’t make excuses about stories, I thought. Of course, regret was a word I was too young to understand. And so I made sure my protests were heard.
“Don’t you know any scary stories or any ghost stories? It’s the perfect weather for that too.”
“Hmm, a scary story. Are you sure, you brat? You won’t want to sleep in my bed tonight, will you?”
Her face wrinkled with a smile and I knew I had hit the mark. Grandma always smiled when she was prepared to tell her story.
“I will tell you a story from my own life, a story from this village. A story about the hills and the woods, and the people that have lived in this place. Is this a scary story? A sad story? I have never been able to decide that for myself. Perhaps you will after you’ve heard me tell it, know whether it makes you sad or it scares you. But is it a happy story? No. No, it is not a happy story, my child.
But let me tell you the story of the ranger of Khangbru hill. And then, you will decide for yourself what kind of a story this is.”
And thus, began the story that would forever haunt my life.